


Stow It All Away

by goalielove43



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Birthday, Bisexual Male Character, Excessive Drinking, Gen, Kneeling, M/M, Multi, NHL RPF, Other, Pittsburgh Penguins, in the closet, past sexual exploitation mentioned in passing, protective Sid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25810156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goalielove43/pseuds/goalielove43
Summary: He's hurt and he's drained and in some small way he's kind of glad it's over and that feels likeshit. He hates that he feels like that. He also hates that he's a little angry with his boys. That feels like betrayal and it boils in his gut all the way back to the locker room.
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Pittsburgh Penguins, Sidney Crosby/Tristan Jarry/Evgeni Malkin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	Stow It All Away

**Author's Note:**

> Because the Pens are out and it was on Sid's birthday and just... ugh. All the ugh.  
> Brought to you by feels and by Alanis Morrisette's new album, specifically the song Smiling. I'm having myself a minute over here.  
> This... was not supposed to be this angsty. Honestly it was supposed to be everyone give Sid birthday BJs as an apology, but holy shit that so did not happen.

It hurts. It aches somewhere deep down inside and it takes an entire universe of fortitude to keep Sid from crumbling in front of everyone. He's the goddamned Captain and he should be okay. He should be able to rally them together and let them know it's okay, there's always next year. There's always... the fact that he's thirty three. The fact that someone has just asked him if his age has anything to do with his flagging performance. That's a stab in the fucking gut and he feels it acutely. It digs in and twists and he wonders vaguely if his face displays any of the thoughts banging around in his head. He wonders for half a second if he's going to somehow be nice, if he's going to snap and go off, or if he's just going to open his mouth and vomit.

Somewhat distantly he heard the derisive tone of his voice, the sneer beneath it that wants out. This isn't just on him. Sure, he has to shoulder a lot of the blame, he's the damn C on the team. That comes with the hits, both physical and mental. But this isn't all his fault. He shouldn't be looked at like he's carrying a whole team. 

He's hurt and he's drained and in some small way he's kind of glad it's over and that feels like _shit_. He hates that he feels like that. He also hates that he's a little angry with his boys. That feels like betrayal and it boils in his gut all the way back to the locker room. 

He doesn't let that seep out, he can't. He doesn't let it slow down his motions as he removes his equipment, showers, and gets himself together. He'd normally say something. Anything. He wants to, but he also wants to scream and cry and throw one of his patented tantrums and now is _so_ not the damn time. So he shuts down. 

He's numb and his fingers are numb and the light in his eyes is gone and he feels like his world has already ended and he's just staring at the aftermath. What if they're right? What if thirty fucking three is too old? What if he is at the end of his game and the next time his contract is up, it'll also be the end of his career? It's too much and so he just ignores it. He ignores that and everything else. The pats to his shoulders, the hand that clings a little too long to his bicep to be considered nothing, the words that don't even make an impression on his mind through the fog. 

They go back to the hotel and he's on auto pilot when he makes his way to his room and closes the door and pulls out what should have been a celebratory bottle of whiskey. The cap goes spinning off across the room and he misses the bed when he goes to sit down and doesn't bother correcting himself on the way down. He lands hard and just sits there, ass aching and his heart breaking, and _this is his fault_.

He should know better by now. It doesn't matter that it should be their fault, it's all his instead. He knows his mind and he knows the mind of every member of the fucking press out there and he knows how he was being stared at in the dressing room and he hates it. 

The bottle tips against his lips and he swallows down the burning liquid, gulps until he needs to breathe and comes up half choking, wiping his hand across his mouth and snorting to get the part that went up his nose. He has today and then they're gone. Today he can wallow and tomorrow he can regret everything he did today. The game, this, anything he has to say once he's good and drunk. 

Maybe no one will come and he won't have to find the words to apologize to anyone for the things he says. He has a recollection of being here before. He has the sensation of all of this so fresh in his mind. It's sour and it burns and it tastes like tomorrow's vomit and he wants to smash the bottle against the wall as much as he wants to see what happens if he finishes it on his own after a season without a single drop. His hand shakes when he lifts it to his lips again, when he swallows the liquid that no one ever meant to drink like this as though he's downing water. He hasn't drank enough water after the game and it's with some sort of personal vendetta that he ignores that fact and trudges on, heading for the bottom of this bottle as fast as he can.

It says something about his mental state that he doesn't even hear the knock on the door that had to have come before someone got the spare key from Coach. It says more that he just stares up at Geno's face and doesn't say a fucking word. The silence stretches out between them and it's only when Geno slowly kneels in front of him, bows down enough to push his nose into the short pile carpet that Sid reacts at all. Even then it's only to put his hand on Geno's head and it's a struggle not to shove him further into the carpet.

He loves Geno. Loves him in ways he probably shouldn't and Geno has never had a damn clue. Sid has never told him and never will. But right now he wants to take his anguish out on someone and now is not the time for someone to kneel for him. Tears hover in his vision, cloud the bottom line, and he blinks them back and takes another swig and by some miracle doesn't do anything but rest a gentle hand on Geno's head.

He hears Geno's words, his quiet Russian and he knows just enough to understand the apology, the anguish, to get that he's not the only one feeling like this. Objectively, he knows that's true. It's just that his brain doesn't give a flying fuck what anyone else feels right now. His brain has ditched off the edge into Sidney Crosby is Shit mode and he can't reel it back in. Only one thing has ever settled that part of him and he's not allowed himself that thing since he was seventeen and misguided and full of foolishness he'd never dare endure again.

He closes his eyes and he doesn't think about anything other than this drowning feeling and if that's wetness tracking down his cheeks, well, it was expected if nothing else. No one can blame him for wallowing. No one can blame him for hurting.

He's not sure when, but the next time he opens his eyes, Geno's gone and it's Jarry in his room, Jarry looking at him like he's equally as drunk and wavering on his feet like he's about to keel over, and Sid just draws his legs apart and sits up and waits. He's had Murray here time and again, but he's never had to do this with Jarry. He looks devastated. He looks like he's one strong breath from being blown over and Sid just barely manages to slur out, "Kneel." It's less of a command and more of a word tossed out onto the air, but it does what it's supposed to anyway and Jarry goes down like someone cut his strings and then his head is on Sid's thigh and Sid's pants are growing wet and... and they'd never live any of this down if anyone knew the big strong boys just got sloppy drunk, knelt, and bawled their eyeballs out together. 

Somehow this is simpler than Geno kneeling for him. It's not fraught with all the things Sid shouldn't say. It's easier to put his hand on Jarry's head and hold him there. It's also easier not to want to grind his face into the carpet. If there's one person on the whole fucking team that's not to blame, it's Jarry. Perfect, lovely Jarry who is sobbing against Sid's thigh like he was the one who failed.

It takes a while to summon the strength, but Sid manages, "S'not your... fault," and he hears the quiet, "But it feels like it is," in return and he aches for it. His heart seizes and he has to find a way to tell Jarry it's okay, that this wasn't on him. He can't find the words in time, but another voice in the room does it for him, Murray's quiet voice coming from the corner.

"I know you needed to kneel for him, Jars, but... this shit ain't on you. The media's already saying the same thing. Kneel for him, but know it's not a blame thing when you do it."

He doesn't have to say that it will be when he does it in a minute. Sid can feel those words, see the look on Murray's face when he steps out of the shadows, and he's hung up staring at him, his mouth dry and his world drowning. 

Jarry's fingertips graze his inner thigh and Sid's gaze jerks down, watches the hesitant touches and he remembers where Jarry came from, what some of the kneeling requirements were and it's like all the alcohol in his system evaporates at the same time, fear seizing him instead. He cannot and will not let Tristan degrade himself like this. He slides his fingers down and captures Jarry's own, bringing them up and pressing them to his mouth, closing his eyes and just holding on while he gathers enough words to spill them out in the proper order.

Eventually he manages a quiet, "You owe me nothing like that. We don't operate like that here, Jars, okay?"

Jarry lifts his head and there's agony in his gaze and Sid almost feels bad shutting him down. _Almost_. The other part of him says he's saying the right words, that he should never tip his own hand in things like these. He should never ever require someone else to do something they don't want to while they're in search of forgiveness. That's not him and it's not this team and _fuck_ anyone who ever taught Jarry otherwise. 

It's Murray who peels Jarry up and away, who gets him out the door and from the sound of it into the arms of waiting teammates and Sid prays no one else would ever think of taking advantage of what just almost happened here. The thought makes him angry and he stumbles to his feet and makes it to the door, his hand on Murray's shoulder, clinging for balance as he points at Jarry and manages, "No one touches him without permission."

Jarry stares at him, confusion written in his eyes, and beside him Murray slips an arm around his waist and holds him up a little better. 

Sid feels sick thinking of someone taking advantage of Jarry and he reaches out a hand back toward him and curls his fingers just the slightest, but it makes Jarry come back and Sid doesn't let him go. They all stumble back into the room and Sid somehow manages his feet under him a little better and guides Jarry to the chair in the corner and gets him seated, fusses over getting a water bottle for him and then goes back to his own bottle of an entirely different sort and doesn't miss the bed on the way down this time.

He sits on the edge of it and Murray kneels without hesitation, his head on Sid's knee and it's easier like this to not think about how else he'd like to have a man kneeling before him. The position should be more damning and yet, it isn't. It's not so achingly close to Sid's only experience with his preferred gender and it doesn't make him want to arch into the touch in ways he absolutely shouldn't.

He lets Murray whisper his apologies, lets him grovel despite thinking he did okay, that no one can be expected to pick up for a whole damn team. He swallows down more from the bottle and occasionally glances at the dark television screen to ensure Jarry is still in his room, still seated there and okay and no one is taking advantage of his past.

Murray leaves and Zach comes in, kneels and stays for all of five minutes before he ends his turn, a steady stream behind him, all of them quiet, apologetic, dejected. Even the call-ups are there, people who never saw a minute of play up here. He tells them they're as blameless as Jarry is when he can find his voice, but he lets them kneel for him regardless. He cannot turn them away if they need it so much.

The thing is... he needs it too. He needs to apologize to someone and there's no one to do it to. Not like this. It's another secret that's never left his lips, how he's never wanted to be the one being knelt to and how he's always longed to be the one kneeling. He wants to kneel for the whole team and wants to grovel and beg for forgiveness and promise he'll do _anything_ to be better. He's given so much and yet there are times it's not enough. So many times. And it hurts in a way he knows will never heal.

He thinks about doing the most disgraceful thing he can think of and finding their rivals and kneeling for them instead. He thinks about degrading himself and doing it in front of the press, letting their league secrets escape in a way no one else ever has. He imagines being the first person to kneel on public television and the fallout and his name being smeared across the planet as if he's nothing but a shit stain meant to be washed away.

Familiar hands touch him, warm breath ghosts across him far too close to his crotch and he swims back to the surface of his psyche. Geno's back and he's there and he's... no. _No_. He wants to cry when he does the same to Geno that he did with Jarry, when he has to take his hands and lift them to his lips and try not to sob at taking away one of the only things outside hockey he'd ever wanted. 

He can't say the words to Geno, can't tell him this isn't what he wants, because he does. He wants it for reasons that have nothing to do with kneeling and nothing to do with the team and everything to do with Geno himself and it feels like something horrible is clawing up his throat and he can barely breathe much less speak.

It's Jarry that speaks up, his voice so gentle from the chair in the corner where he's remained since Sid put him there. "Sid says we don't do that here, G... surely you know..."

Geno just sounds broken when he replies, the words fractured and choked out and sodden with so many emotions it hurts to even try to unravel. "I think just this one time, maybe I can give..."

Sid sees that horrible water line again and he feels betrayal trying to work its way up to his lips. He feels the words sober him would have wanted to say, the words that a version of him that gives in wants to let free into the world. He feels them slice his throat and shred him to pieces as he swallows them down and says instead, "No one owes me that."

"Maybe not about owing," Geno whispers against his fingers and Sid's not sure that it was loud enough for Jarry to hear. Not that he knows how to respond either way.

He dips his head and closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Geno's and shares his air and his space and thinks about how he'll not see him until next season. He thinks about how he blamed him earlier, how angry he was, and he thinks about what a horrible person he is for thinking any of those things. He cries then, just lets Geno see it all and lets it happen, right there in his space, in his air and in his arms.

It doesn't take much to get him off the edge of the bed, to get the mostly empty bottle away from him, and it takes even less for Jarry and Geno to get him kneel. He melts into it and it feels like the biggest relief in the entire world and Sid almost feels sick with it. He presses his forehead to their knees, to where they've settled thigh-to-thigh and lets them both get their hands on his head to keep him there and to stroke.

He sobs and it's ugly and he can't breathe and he thinks he's going to die. He drools on the carpet and he chokes on his own air and he shakes like he's never shook before. It all comes pouring out and he can't stop any piece of it. He's fractured and broken and breaking further with every single second but for once in his entire fucking life, he knows someone's going to be there to put him back together.

He runs out of tears somewhere along the way and behind that, he stops the dry heaving gasps of tears that no longer exist and he finds comfort in something that's not the bottom of a bottle. He calms and eases and then he's finally kneeling for real and he can breathe for the first time in his entire life. He feels free and open and comforted and he stays there until Jarry's whisper-quiet voice peels him out of it, breathing out that they should lay down instead, preserve their tired bodies this last little vestige. 

He lets himself be moved, allows it when he's placed in the center of his own bed and smothered on both sides by warm bodies of two men he feels overly protective of. He curls into them and clings and lets them drape themselves all over him and just lets himself exist. 

He's needed this for so many years, needed this since he was thirteen and standing in a darkened closet, listening to his own wheezing breaths as he tried not to take the horrible words aimed at him as personally as he was, needed it every time he's failed since then. 

For the first time, he feels like someone's catching him and he knows it's okay to fall. And so, he does. He closes his eyes and he lets go and sleep comes in like a gentle storm.


End file.
